


Love It If We Made It

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Drummer George, Explicit Language, Gender Nonconforming Dream, Guitarist Sapnap, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBT Themes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rock Band AU, Sexual Content, Singer Dream, musician au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Dream Team is a genre-defying band taking the world by storm.Dream is the quintessential frontman: pretty, popular, polarizing. He alternates between suits and skirts, wears eyeliner for fun, and leans into the sex symbol status that has been bestowed upon him by his fans.George is the band’s drummer and producer. He and Dream have been making music since they were seventeen, and they just keep getting better. And closer. And their band is getting more and more famous.Things are starting to get complicated.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 81
Kudos: 340
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Sex

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entirely self-indulgent (and probably slightly OOC) AU that I enjoy writing. I hope you enjoy, too! A few things:
> 
> 1\. This fic is a pure work of fiction based on internet personas and is, obviously, entirely made-up, and just written for fun. If any of the real people mentioned express discomfort about fic being written about them, I'll take it down! 
> 
> 2\. This fic contains Adult Themes including sex and especially drug use (pretty much restricted to alcohol and weed). I don't know if I'm gonna write smut because I usually don't but also I might. Idk! Just take those as ubiquitous warnings for the entire fic.
> 
> 3\. Every chapter of this fic is based off a specific song which I will link in the beginning notes as Suggested Viewing just for the sake of hearing the the melodies I'm writing about. Some of the songs I link to might also contain adult themes (in fact nearly all of them do) so use your best judgment! 
> 
> Okay, I'll stop talking now. Thanks for reading (:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Viewing for chapter 1 can be found [here](https://youtu.be/N_XW5uYg1dE)!

When George remembers touring in the distant future, he’ll remember it like this:

Lights flashing in his eyes, blinding him at the wrong angles and obscuring the crowd that stood just beyond their glare. He can’t even get stage fright anymore, because he can’t see any of the fans. He could have been performing to five or five hundred or five thousand people and he wouldn’t know the difference. (He does know it’s closer to fifty thousand, though.)

The aftershocks of a particularly vicious bassline rumbling in his chest. His left leg, jittering up and down on the hi hat. His right leg itching to hit the kick. A pair of extra drumsticks hidden under his seat, because he’s always scared he’ll drop a stick, even though he never does. Adrenaline pumping in his chest, his hands shaking slightly, waiting for the next song to start.

And always, perpetually, the fantastic silhouette of Dream against the lights, only a few feet in front of him yet seemingly a million miles away. He always manages to transfix George, no matter how many times they play together. Tonight, he’s wearing a suit – they all are – though his suit jacket has been discarded, and his tie has been loosened around his neck, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone. Right now, he’s catching his breath, holding onto the microphone, his shoulders heaving slightly as the crowd roars at the end of one of their songs.

George adjusts his grip on his drumsticks and sits forward in his seat, glancing to his left, where Bad stands on the bass, his formal suit still looking immaculate. The two of them give each other a quick grin. The next song is a mutual favorite.

“I think you might know this one,” Dream says into the microphone, his voice echoing around the arena. “Maybe.” He turns to grab his electric guitar, because this next song _requires_ as many guitars as possible.

Once he’s ready, he raises his eyebrows at Sapnap. The guitarist grins and immediately launches into an iconic, searing riff, the crowd going crazy as Dream shouts, _“and this is how it starts!”_

George crashes in on beat like he’s done a million times before as Dream sings, _“take your shoes off in the back of my van…”_

The song is fast and loud and heavy on the kick, and George loves it, has loved it ever since he and Dream wrote it when they were seventeen and fucking around on a shitty drum set in his parent’s garage, when they were adolescent and absolutely raging with hormones and writing the horniest music imaginable, music that had gotten them famous, that had gotten them here.

 _"She said use your hands in my spare time,”_ Dream sings to a crowd that sings back and amplifies every lyric a hundredfold. _“We got one thing in common, it’s this tongue of mine…”_

Sometimes it’s hard to recognize Dream like this, Dream the persona, the person on stage, as opposed to the Dream George knows behind the scenes, who can be quiet and weird about boundaries. This Dream, rocking out on the guitar, dancing around the stage, singing about sex to a crowd of thousands, is someone entirely alien and yet intimately familiar as they reach the chorus and George starts in on the crash cymbals, bringing the volume even higher. 

_“Does he take care of you, or could I easily fill his shoes?”_ Dream shouts into the mic, and the crowd screams back, _“but you say no….”_

Finally, they reach the bridge, and George and Sapnap get to go just absolutely crazy, the lights flashing as the beat builds and builds, Dream jumping up and down and ripping into the guitar until the music finally crests and then falls back into the last verse -

 _“Now we’re just outside of town, you’re making your way down,”_ Dream is singing, somewhat breathlessly. His long hair is coming lose from its messy ponytail, framing his face in strands. “ _And I’m not trying to stop you, love, if we’re gonna do anything…”_

“ _We might as well just fuck_ ,” George mouths along with a laugh as he keeps the beat on the hi hat. It’s one of his favorite lyrics. Just utterly ridiculous.

 _“She’s got a boyfriend anyway,”_ Dream finally sings, and their momentum carries them forward through the end of the song, _“you in your high tops anyway…”_

By the end of the song it’s just a competition between George, Dream and Sapnap to see who can make the gnarliest, most obnoxious sound on their instrument, George going crazy on the kick and crash cymbals, Dream and Sapnap playing chicken on who make their reverb sound the coolest, Bad holding it down on a bone-rattling bass note.

And they’re still having fun, they’ve been playing this song almost nightly for four months of touring but it’s _still_ fun; George still feels the rush as he finally crashes into the final beat, and he sees Dream and Sapnap giving each other breathless grins. Dream turns and winks at George obnoxiously, and the drummer rolls his eyes but can’t help but smile back.

This. This is touring.

“Austin!” Dream says into the mic, and the crowd goes wild. George peers through the lights and sees a few rows of faces, people grinning and cheering, arms outstretched towards Dream, who puts his guitar away and finishes the last of his glass of wine before returning to the mic. “This has been amazing! Holy shit. We’re so excited we get to be here tonight. This is our buddy Sapnap’s home town, did I mention that?”

Cheers flood the arena as Sapnap gives a cheesy grin and makes a motion like he’s touching the brim of an imaginary hat.

“Should have brought the cowboy hat,” Bad shouts over George’s drumset, and Sapnap laughs.

Dream can’t hear them, he’s running a hand through his straw-colored hair and keeping the crowd going. “We’re gonna play a few songs off our most recent album,” he says to cheers, “and there’s a new album coming soon. I… I know I said that like six months ago,” he laughs into the mic, “but I mean it this time. It’s coming! Okay.”

He turns around and makes a face at George, who makes a face back.

“Let’s do this,” Dream shouts over the low roar of the crowd, and they do.


	2. Nothing Revealed/Everything Denied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Viewing: [here](https://youtu.be/kpXNeiTins8)
> 
> Warnings: drug use, sexual themes

Backstage is smoky and dim like it usually is, and George immediately falls backwards onto the dingy little couch, his limbs sprawled over the seats. These places never get nicer, even as you get bigger. They might have been playing in the seedy little London bar where they got their first gig, based on how musty and dark the backstage lounge was.

“Move,” Dream says and pushes George’s legs off the couch, ignoring his little grumble as he collapses on the seat next to him. Dream looks breathless and exhausted, his shirt and hair damp with sweat. He pulls his ponytail out and his hair falls to his shoulders. “I need a drink.”

“Thought you had one on stage,” George says, the adrenaline from the show still buzzing in his head.

“We didn’t, though,” says Sapnap, cracking open a beer and throwing an unopened bottle to Bad, who sets it aside with a wrinkled nose.

“Actually, you know what I really want?” Dream says, looking at George with raised eyebrows. Then he makes a stupid little motion like he’s taking a puff of something.

George snorts. “Are we allowed?”

“It’s not like we can go anywhere else,” Dream shrugs, and grabs the bag he brings backstage to rummage around for his weed box. “I rolled a joint earlier, it’s chill.”

“We’ll just smoke a cig to get the smell out, right?” George says dryly, reaching for the blunt.

“Exactly,” Dream laughs easily, grabbing the lighter. He turns towards George and pulls one leg up onto the couch, leaning over to light the joint hanging from George’s lips. George takes a pull and then exhales the heavy smoke slowly, reveling in the warm, familiar burn in his chest. He passes it to Dream, who takes two hits in quick succession. And maybe George should feel more nervous about it, but at this point it’s whatever. The buzz from the show is wearing off and he wants something to level him out before he crashes. The ritual of smoking a joint with Dream is centering and calming.

“Want this, Sap?” Dream asks, holding the joint out in offering.

Sapnap just shakes his head and takes another swig from his bottle. “Nah. I’m tryna get lit tonight, not fall asleep.” He doesn’t smoke with them so much anymore, maybe once in a blue moon. His version of winding down involves hitting every club in town and bringing more women back to his hotel room than the other three combined, Dream included.

Bad is sprawled out in the chair across from them, kindly ignoring the drug use as he learned to do three tours ago, scrolling through his phone with disinterest. Bad’s post-show drug of choice is, like, chamomile tea and a good mystery novel. But he’s long since forgiven the other guys their vices, considering they never get in the way of putting on a good show and allows them all to have a generally tolerable touring experience. “What time do we leave tomorrow?” he asks.

“Ask Wilbur,” George says, feeling a comfortable haze settle over his head. Dream blows out a cloud of smoke that hangs heavily in the air, filtering through the fluorescent lights.

“And where is Wilbur?”

“Ask Nikki,” George says and Dream throws his head back and laughs, making George feel warm.

“Well, where is _Nikki?”_ Bad complains, standing up to wander away from their backstage room, into the fray of sound people and roadies getting their enormous set taken down. “Nikki!”

George realizes Dream is pushing the joint into his hands and he takes it, giggling as he takes another pull.

Dream raises his eyebrows, staring at him with a grin. “You’re already high. Two hits and you’re already high.”

“Am not,” George says, but he giggles again, tellingly. Dream snickers and George pushes his shoulder. “Ugh, whatever. I’m just tired.”

“I’m confiscating this,” Dream says, grabbing the joint, but transitions fluidly into his next idea: “I got an idea for the album while we were playing.” His eyes are bright and excited and focused totally on George. George loves these moments, these rare moments where he has Dream’s full attention. They usually come when they’re writing their albums, which hasn’t been a focus over tour.

“What is it?” George hums.

“I want gospel music,” Dream says, gesturing broadly with his hands. “A gospel choir.”

“We’ve used gospel choirs _already_ though,” George laughs, feeling a warm, tingly feeling spread through his body, especially where he’s sinking into the couch. He shifts so he’s facing Dream and slings his legs over his friend’s.

“I know, because I _love it,”_ Dream says. “You know this. It’s the sheer authentic volume you get out of a whole bunch of people singing at the top of their lungs -,”

“Right, ‘non-amplified music that’s loud’,” George hums, finishing the thought Dream’s rambled about a hundred times.

“And then we transition it into the exact _opposite parallel,_ which is _hip-hop,”_ Dream says with a flourish.

“Okay, you guys talking shop is my cue to leave,” Sapnap says from across the room, finishing his beer and standing.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m in Texas, man, I’m gonna go fuckin’ party with my people,” Sapnap laughs, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “And I’m gonna drag Bad with me so he can get me home.”

“Have fun,” Dream says, but his eyes haven’t left George’s face; he’s hyperfixated on his idea, and the instant Sapnap disappears, Dream repeats himself. “ _Hip-hop,_ George, _hip-hop._ You understand what I’m saying?”

George feels a laugh just bubble up in his chest and he grabs the joint that Dream’s been camping with for way too long now, knocking the ash off before it can burn his fingers. “You’re saying you want to rap on the album?” he chuckles, and takes another hit because he wants to see the vision.

“I mean, it’s not gonna be a _real_ rap, but it’ll be like, I dunno, spoken word or something,” Dream says. “Listen, you see what I mean though, about them being opposite but parallel? Like, gospel and rap, they’re both deeply meaningful, steeped in tradition, spiritual. Both focused on voice as a primary instrument. They operate best in _context_.”

George hums thoughtfully. He likes what Dream’s saying. He can see it. “I guess it’s not actually that crazy, right? That’s exactly what, like, Kanye has been doing…”

“Right!” Dream exclaims.

“The challenge would just be making it sound sonically, like, coherent, but we could fuck around and figure something out,” George says, excitement swelling up in his chest.

They’ve been collecting all these little ideas, he and Dream, inspiration striking at different moments, storing them all away for the moment they can finally get back into their recording studio and make new music. That part of the band had always been him and Dream, pretty much exclusively, writing and producing the music, then bringing in Sapnap and Bad for finishing touches and flourishes. Sap and Bad themselves don’t care; the part of making music they like least, the tinkering with audio levels and experimentation with different chord structures, is the part that George likes most, and Dream tolerates in the name of artistic vision. It’s a balance that works perfectly.

They sit in silence for a moment, mulling over the idea, and Dream sighs, grabbing the blunt from George’s fingers and taking a pull so deep it hurts George's lungs just watching it. “I know,” he says through a mouthful of smoke, “I know that our fans love our old stuff, but… sometimes I wish I never had to perform songs like _Sex_ again, and we could just do all this weird shit we’ve been doing recently.”

“I know how you feel,” George says, thinking back to the night’s performance. “Like, it’s still fun, but we’re on a totally different level now.”

“Exactly.”

“What are you two _idiots_ doing?” comes a familiar voice from the door, and Dream and George are pulled out of their little bubble as Wilbur storms in, grabs the joint from a protesting Dream, and violently puts it out in the ashtray, stalking over to throw it in the trash can. “You dumbasses realize we’re in _Texas,_ right? Like, War On Drugs Capital of America?”

“Wilbur, we're in _Austin_. And what, you gonna turn us in or something?” Dream laughs, stretching his arms over his head.

“You could have at least done it outside, where you wouldn't've make the whole building smell like a dead skunk,” their manager says, crossing his arms.

“Good idea, Wil, next time I’ll go smoke outside, in front of a crowd of impressionable young fans who are all trying desperately to fuck me,” Dream says dryly, and George snorts, flushing slightly. 

“You _could_ just not smoke at all,” Wilbur ventures, but this just earns him a round of boos from the two band members. He lifts his hands. “Alright, Jesus. Just wait til you get on the bus, okay? It’s pulling around soon. And we leave at 6 am to get to the airport tomorrow, 6 am, you hear me? You hear me, Dream?” he asks loudly.

“I hear you,” Dream says with a roll of his eyes.

“Sorry? What time was it again?” Wilbur repeats, lifting a hand to his ear.

“6 am, I get it, Christ!”

Wilbur smirks and ruffles Dream’s hair as he leaves, drawing an annoyed glare from the singer.

“What an asshole,” he says, fixing his hair.

George hums noncommittally, hugging his arms to his chest and leaning against the couch contentedly. They love Wilbur – it’s good he’s an asshole, they need a little bit of shepherding every now and then to stay on task.

“Can’t wait to get home,” he says softly.

Dream exhales and his head falls back. “I know,” he agrees, “I’m exhausted,” and George can see the slightly sunken look in his eyes, the way his elbows and shoulderblades and ribs poke out just a little sharper than usual. He's skinny. Hasn't been eating enough. Hasn't been sleeping well, George suspects. Tour is hard on all of them, but especially on Dream, and George feels the urge to get home so he can force Dream to spend a week or so doing nothing but sleeping, eating, and watching bad TV. He looks like he needs it.

Later, as they sneak out a side entrance to get onto the bus without being swarmed with the sweet but exhausting fans that linger outside the concert hall, George’s sobering-up mind trails back to the conversation they were having earlier. “What’s the song going to be about?” he asks Dream as they sit on the couch in the living area of the bus.

“Which song?”

“The song. The gospel rap song.” 

“Oh,” Dream says, a small smile playing at his lips. “God, I guess.”

George snorts. _“God, I guess,”_ he mimics in a high-pitched voice.

“What else could a gospel rap song be about?”

“Fair.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s that serious, though. I mean, I think it’s more about truth,” and Dream is going into one of his little speeches about the meaning of things, always the songwriter, the faux-philosopher, or maybe the real philosopher – George doesn’t know enough about it to really judge the worth of Dream’s ideas, but he likes listening to them anyway. “You know? How _untruthful_ so many people like us are, and how we’re trying to… be true? Say true things? I don’t know. I mean, that lends itself naturally to thinking about God, but I don’t think we can take ourselves too seriously. I think it’ll be a funny song. Like, the only line I have written so far is a funny line.”

“What is it?” George asks, propping his head on his hand as he watches Dream. It’s dark outside, and the lights are off inside the van, so the only illumination is the street lights that are passing by, slowly picking up speed as the van pulls onto the highway and heads for their hotel.

Dream grins and clears his throat. _“I never fucked in a car, I was lying,”_ he sings into the air, slightly off-tune. _“I just do it on my bed, not trying.”_

This makes George blush and laugh at the same time, burying his face in his hands and shaking it back and forth. “You’re such an idiot.”

“You don’t like it?” Dream asks, raising his eyebrows at him with a teasing smile.

“You realize that contradicts like… three or four of our songs. Including _Sex._ ”

“Exactly. It’s like… shocker. What you’re seeing is a persona. It’s not real. These songs aren’t always true.”

“I can’t believe you,” George says, shaking his head.

“It’s a good line,” Dream says, and then makes a little motion with his hand like he’s throwing a handful of something into a pot. “It goes in.”

“It goes in,” George says reluctantly, echoing their little line they use when one of them has made up their mind about a song. An album is a melting pot, they decided once; you have to throw the right ingredients in and hope the finished product comes out good, even if you can’t picture it during the process.

The two of them fall into silence as the bus picks up speed on the highway, and George leans his head against the window, watching the lights blur through the window, the buildings passing by. There’s no sound except for the tires on the cement and the sound of their breathing, the two of them close to each other on the couch, barely not touching.

It’s in moments like these that it becomes harder for George to deny how he feels about his best friend, but it’s still possible; he has practice. He’s become used to keeping his eyes trained on the view outside the window, keeping himself stubbornly fixated on other things and not the way Dream looks when he tips his head back, exposing the soft skin of his neck, the sharp lines of his collarbone; when he closes his eyes, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

He’s beautiful. Everybody knows it. It’s undeniably part of the reason they’ve done so well. Everyone falls in love with Dream, whether they admit it or not; men, women, it doesn’t matter.

And it doesn’t help that Dream himself is so ambiguous about… everything, ambiguous about his sexuality, even his gender identity. Recently, he’s been getting really into playing with how he dresses on stage; he’s been trying out skirts that he alternates with suits, wears eyeliner on stage, has been letting his hair grow out just for fun. He writes songs that seem… gay, pretty often, songs his fanbase has picked up and fully embraced.

Yet despite his brash openness in his songs, Dream is so actually _private_ behind the scenes. Even to George, his best friend, he only tells so much.

So George doesn’t actually know. And their relationship, their friendship, is important, not only because Dream is the most important person in George’s life period, but because without their ability to be fully comfortable around each other, to be totally vulnerable, there’s no way they could write the kind of music they write. There’s no way it could work.

He just stuffs it all down. He’ll get past it soon, he figures, find someone else to direct his energy towards. It’s just that he and Dream have been spending so much concentrated time with each other on tour, constantly near each other. It’s normal, it’s fine, for there to be some tension.

It’s normal for George’s heart to skip a beat as Dream starts humming to himself sleepily, trying out what sounds like a new melody.

 _“Life feels like a lie, I need something to be true… feels like there’s something missing, maybe it’s you,”_ he sings softly. Dream’s eyes blink open and he turns to look at George. “Is that any good?”

George just stares at him and nods, and Dream smiles and closes his eyes again.

“I’m so tired,” he mumbles.

George lets himself reach out and push Dream’s hair out of his face in a familiar gesture that Dream leans into, making a small, happy sound. They’re best friends, and physical touch like this is fine. It’s normal. It’s fine.

“We’ll be home soon,” George says. “Just one more little drive and then two flights. We’ve done it a million times before.” 

“Literally,” Dream says with a huge yawn, snuggling a little deeper into the couch.

George bites the inside of his cheek and sighs.

Just a little bit longer, and they'll be home.


	3. Roadkill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested Viewing: [here](https://youtu.be/Aj3n-8OK-gA)
> 
> Warnings: Both this chapter AND the song it's based off of refer to homophobic slurs. It's not written explicitly in the chapter, but it is in the song.

The sun beats down heavily on the heads of the dozen or so people bunched up on the side of the highway, clustered on the scrubby landscape of dried up grass and rocks. Cars zip past them on the road. In front of them sits an enormous tour bus, hissing steam pouring from its engine.

“You know, I think this might actually be _worse_ than Indiana,” George says, his arms crossed as he surveys the scene.

“Nothing could be worse than Indiana,” Bad says, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, beaded with sweat.

“You say that, but this is the third time this van has broken down in this single godforsaken state alone,” George says as Sapnap, Wilbur, and a few of the sound guys talk about the engine, figuring out what to do. He trusts their car expertise far more than his own, which basically ends with ‘how to put gas inside of one.’

“Hey, leave Texas out of this,” Sapnap shouts from the engine, having apparently heard George’s snipe. “It’s not it’s fault it’s huge… and hot.”

“Actually, it sort of is,” George shouts back.

“Can you guys _please_ let it be?” comes a groan from behind him, and George turns to see Dream crouched on a rock, his head in his hands, looking absolutely miserable.

“What’s wrong, Dream? Can’t take the heat?” George teases lightly, pacing back towards his friend.

Dream doesn’t look up at him. He’s dressed in a sweats and an old _Metallica_ t-shirt, his hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He has leftover eyeliner from last night’s show still smudged at the corners of his eyes. “I just want to get to the airport already,” he whines.

“We’re still a few hours away from DFW,” Bad says, and Dream groans loudly.

“Dream, what’s going on?” George says. “I know things are exhausting right now, but you’re acting even more childish than usual.”

Dream is silent for a long moment before mumbling something inaudible into his hands.

“What?”

“I need to PISS,” he shouts, dropping his hands, and catching the attention of a few nearby roadies, who snicker. George snorts and Bad’s hand flies over his mouth.

“Oh my god. Dream. Just do it, then,” George says.

“Do _you_ see a bathroom anywhere nearby?” Dream asks, throwing his arms out widely.

“We’re in the middle of the desert, just go pee on a cactus or something.”

“That’s disgusting, George.”

“How many disgusting things have I seen you do, and wilderness pissing is where you draw the line?”

“You guys are both gross,” Bad says, shaking his head and turning around. “Dream, just take care of it. You are not _peeing_ yourself on the bus, I swear to god.”

“Oh my --,” Dream cuts off and stands up, stalking away and grumbling as he leaves.

George watches him leave with exasperated fondness, but he quickly realizes what Dream had been getting at as he leaves the main group. The landscape they’re in is so large, and so flat, that no matter how far Dream walks, everyone in the touring group basically has a clear line of sight on him, so that when he finally drops his pants –

George’s face flushes bright red and he jerks around, the sudden movement making him lose his grip on the cup with the remnants of an iced coffee in it, which spills all over his backpack. He mumbles a curse and starts frantically drying off the bag, but when Bad turns around to see what happened, he grabs his shoulder and keeps his friend’s gaze forward, saying, “don’t. Just don’t.”

After a few minutes, Dream reappears at George’s side, giving the coffee-stained backpack a pointed glance but otherwise moving on like nothing had happened. “Have you seen what this lady is saying on Twitter?” he asks, shoving his phone in George’s direction.

George clears his throat and takes a look. The tweet’s from a pretty big account, one of those political accounts constantly signal boosting stuff from the US, and it reads:

_@Alissa_Lead_

_not the way this dr*am t*am band claims to care about social issues but won’t even publically endorse anyone in the election_

followed by a couple of vomiting emojis. The tweet has a few thousand likes.

“Who does she think she is?” Dream complains, pulling the phone back once George stops reading.

“That is a little annoying,” George says, preparing himself for the rant.

“I don’t have any interest in going out and campaigning for some guy, just because he sucks a little bit less than the other options,” Dream’s already started, pacing back and forth slightly and gesturing emphatically with his free hand. “That's not my job. Like, it's just not my responsibility. Just… ugh. And the way she… ugh!”

“Yeah,” George responds neutrally.

To be honest, he sees both sides of this perennial argument, but he doesn’t feel the need to stoke that particular flame. As the sole songwriter, Dream often puts a lot of social messaging into the band’s music, because it’s important to him, and he cares about it. But he doesn’t give a shit about politics, and he _especially_ doesn’t like being told what to do. And so every time some all-important US election rolls around, and Dream starts getting hounded to endorse somebody, he just shuts off completely and complains about it until the election is already over.

“Seriously, if people actually aren’t going to vote unless some random rock star tells them to, they probably shouldn’t vote anyway,” Dream is still mumbling under his breath, but George tunes him out as Sapnap approaches them.

“We think the engine just ran out of coolant,” the guitarist says, wiping his oily hands on his pants. “Cal’s running up to the nearest gas station to get some more, and then we should be set.”

“Thank God,” Dream grumbles as they watch Callahan’s pickup truck speed down the highway.

“Just gives us more time to appreciate the beautiful Texan scenery,” Sapnap grins, stretching his arms over his head. “It’s good to be home.”

“I just want to get back to our _actual_ home,” Bad says, and the four of them nod. They’ve lived close to each other in London for years, ever since they got an apartment together as teenagers so that they could put the band together. They never left. They’re still best friends and record albums in the same studio they had used for their very first album, the one that had made them famous. They’ve changed a lot since then - but they also haven’t at all.

A little while later, Callahan’s car arrives with the treasured coolant, and after a few minutes of testing out the engine, the caravan of touring vehicles finally pulls itself back onto the road.

George and Sapnap collapse on the couch in the tour van, as Bad sits at the table across from them. They all sigh in relief as the air conditioning kicks in, providing some relief from the July heat. Dream drops into a chair at the table as well, absent-mindedly picking up his acoustic guitar and strumming along to the radio station that’s playing over the speakers.

“Ugh, country music,” George complains as he picks up on what's playing.

“Hey, when in Texas, do as the Texans do, son,” Sapnap says. He grabs one of the black cowboy hats they had bought as a bit at a gas station a few days ago and throws it on, grinning at George. “And don't talk shit on country music.”

“I want to put a country song on the next album,” Dream says suddenly, and George looks at him like he’d grown two heads.

“Are you actually insane?” he asks incredulously, but Dream just laughs, shaking his head. _At least he seems to be in a better mood now._

“Country music is great. It’s exactly like emo music but completely different,” Dream says, and before George could ask what the fuck _that_ means, he shouts up front: “hey Jamie, turn the music up.”

The country music gets even louder, and George groans, throwing his head back as the other three start crowing along to the folksy music gleefully.

“ _I got a hundred dollar jeans in my worn down Jeep_ ,” Sapnap adlibs.

“ _I got the dog in the back and the dog is my.. jeans,”_ Bad stutters, and the three of them cackle with laughter.

“What are you even going to write a country song about?” George pesters Dream. “You’ve never stepped foot on a farm.”

“Well, I’ve been to Texas now, that’s gotta count for something,” Dream says, looking out the window at the rocky landscape passing by. Then he whips around, and the grin on his face makes George sigh. It’s how Dream looks when he has a terrible idea that he’s sure is genius. “Listen. Actually. This is it.”

Dream starts playing his guitar to the basic chords of the song, but makes his own melody as he starts singing with a fake Southern twang: _“well I pissed myself on a Texan intersection with George spilling things all over his bag --,”_

Sapnap roars with laughter as George’s face goes bright red, and Bad just shakes his head in exasperation as Dream keeps going in a mock drawl: _“and I took shit for being quiet during the election, and maybe that’s fair but I’m a busy guy --,”_

“Shut _up,_ Dream,” George shouts, but can’t help but laugh.

“It’s just a song full of bullshit about touring,” Dream says, pausing his strumming. “It’s perfect.”

“Wait, keep going,” Sapnap says. Dream starts playing again, and Sapnap alters the melody a little, his voice warbling slightly off-tune: _“I know this is how we get paid but it’s not really how I wanna get laid -,”_

 _“We get stoned and go where we get paid,”_ Dream riffs on the line, _“but that’s not really how babies get made…”_

This sets them both off laughing for some reason, and Dream has to stop strumming as he doubles over his guitar, wheezing.

“I am so done with you guys,” Bad says, standing up and pushing towards the back of the bus, towards their beds. “I need a nap before we get on this freaking plane.”

“Sorry, Bad,” Dream says half-heartedly, picking up the guitar again.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Sapnap says, yawning suddenly. “Sorry, pardners. You'll have to finish this masterpiece without me.” He takes off his cowboy hat and shoves it on George’s head as he passes him by.

“Hey,” George protests, snatching the hat off, but Sapnap’s already disappeared behind the thin curtain that divides their living and sleeping spaces. “Here, Mr. Country,” he says, tossing it at Dream.

Dream leans over to catch the hat on top of his head and grins wickedly as it falls over his eyes. He sits back in his chair, kicking his legs up on the table, and continues picking around on the guitar while humming softly to himself.

“You can’t seriously want this song on the album, can you, Dream?” George asks as he pushes himself into a lying position on the couch, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands on his chest.

“You can’t seriously _not_ want this song on the album,” Dream quips, somewhat awkwardly. “It’s perfect.”

“You’re actually gonna say you pissed yourself on a song?”

“It’s _funny_ ,” Dream insists. His chords grow slower and more sustained, and he sings a few new lines to himself under his breath. “ _Playing my song on the radio station…”_ he trails off for a moment, then a grin spreads across his face. “ _Mugging me off all across the nation…”_

“That’s a Britishism,” George mumbles, throwing a hand over his eyes to block out the sunlight peeking through the windows.

“What is?”

“‘Mugging me off’.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dream chuckles softly. “I guess you’re corrupting me.”

“Corrupting?” George says indignantly, but lets it rest as Dream keeps going. He’s clearly been bit by whatever bluesy melody he’s playing, and begrudgingly, George admits to himself that he can hear the potential. The lines are catchy, the melody sweet, as Dream keeps picking through the song.

 _“You know I didn’t feel alright until you spoke to me,”_ Dream sings softly, and then hesitates at the end of the chorus, his fingers fidgeting on the strings, looking for the right way to resolve the melody.

 _“You,”_ he landed on simply, playing through a series of chords on the one word. “ _Been waiting for you…”_

George hums sleepily, the warmth of the sun and low rumble of the van lulling him to sleep, Dream’s voice wrapping him in familiar comfort.

_“My whole life, waiting for you…”_

/\/\

They make it to the plane okay, though it takes off a little late, and they end up running to their connecting flight in the Newark airport before realizing that it’s been delayed, too, which is fine, but just adds to the stress of the whole ordeal. Dream wanders off to get a snack, but when they finally board the plane and he sits down next to George, his expression looks a little off. He pulls out the small leatherbound notebook he brings with him everywhere and starts scribbling in it.

“What are you writing?” George asks, leaning over.

“The song,” Dream mumbles.

“From earlier?”

“Yeah,” Dream says, but then George catches a climpse of the words he’s writing down and he snatches the book, reading it even as Dream lets out a sound of protest.

_I jumped out and ran to my connection/ man in the gift shop called me a ––--_

“ _What?!_ Did this just happen?!” George asks in shock, setting the book down.

Dream looks kind of pissed. “Dude, not cool. Give me my notebook back.”

George does, but he keeps looking at Dream. “Did that actually just happen?”

Dream kind of shrugs.

“That’s not okay,” George says, his stomach kind of churning.

Dream shrugs again. “It’s Texas, so. Dunno what you’d expect.”

George doesn't even know what to say, he's so surprised. Dream doesn’t even look _that_ queer right now, George thinks, well, except for the longish hair and the eyeliner. Maybe that’s all you need to get pegged as queer in a conservative state, though that’s not necessarily the experience George has had so far. Still, the slur Dream has written on the page has sort of burned its way into George’s mind, and his leg jitters with agitation.

“Calm down, George,” Dream mutters, fastening his seatbelt. “It’s funny, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s definitely not funny,” George says, but he’s cut off by the flight attendants as they go into their safety spiel. Dream pretends to pay very close attention, while George mulls over his next words in his head.

“Is this the first time anyone’s called you that?” he asks quietly once the volume has gone down.

Dream looks at him sort of sharply. “What?”

“That,” George says, pointing to the notebook. He can’t even say it, he doesn’t know how Dream expects to _sing_ it. “The f slur.”

Dream’s eyes instantly go guarded and he opens up the book to a new page, sighing. “George, come on.”

“Dream -,”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Dream snaps.

“I’m just saying, I – I know how that feels and it’s not, it’s not fun,” George stumbles over his words, feeling suddenly extremely open and extremely vulnerable. Dream knows he’s gay, has known for years, but they don’t _talk_ about it, definitely not like this, and the way his friend is looking at him makes him realize that maybe, actually, _neither_ of them want to talk about this right now.

“Whatever,” George says, crouching down in his seat and looking out the window as the airplane starts to trundle towards takeoff. “But you’re gonna fight with Wilbur about getting that word on the album, not me.”

Dream laughs, but it’s a kind of tight, nervous sound. “Okay.”

As they take off and George watches the ground drop away from them, he thinks he’s glad to be going home, but he’s also _very_ glad to be _leaving_ Texas. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading the first three chapters ❤️ hope to update soon


	4. She Way Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Suggested Viewing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vq9GfM9DGc8)
> 
> hope you enjoy!

London is rainy and dreary and wonderfully familiar.

George gets home and crashes into bed and sleeps for sixteen hours. When he wakes up, his head is fuzzy and his unpacked suitcases still clutter the floor; it’s 2pm, and he just snuggles back under his covers, reveling in the feeling of comfort and silence and personal space.

The band spends about a week in their own personal bubbles, recovering from the experience of having spent 5 months sleeping a number of inches from each other. Their group text still pings every now and then, little things, like _who stole my phone charger? I can’t find it_ (Dream) or _remember to eat some veggies so you don’t get the post tour flu_ (Bad) or _shut up Bad I’m eating McDonald’s til I puke_ (Sapnap).

George just ignores it and does the things he always does post-tour: he curls up on his couch and catches up on all the TV he’s missed; cleans his apartment and makes himself meals just to feel like a functional adult; plays music through his speakers while drinking cups of tea, curled up on his broad windowsill that he uses as a reading nook, looking out at the gray, drizzling sky. The persistent aches and pains of being cramped on various buses and planes start to fade, and George feels better, healthier, than he has in months.

Like a sort of Genesis, George’s period of peace and quiet is interrupted on the seventh day, when a man decides to fuck it all up.

It’s 7pm and George is curled in an armchair, reading a book and listening to the most recent Son Lux album (which is already giving him ideas for a new instrumental) when his phone dings. It’s a text from Austin.

 _Heyyyyyyy George!!!_ the text says, in Austin’s usual, exuberant style. _Heard you were back in town!! Party at my place tonight. Come through if you’re done with your post-tour hermit phase!!_

George purses his lips and considers it. He is ready for a change of pace – and Austin knows how to throw a party, in his crazy expensive loft that takes up the entire top floor of his building. But Austin’s parties tend to be overwhelming, packed full of people George doesn’t know – and every party drug known to mankind, which isn’t George’s usual speed.

Before he responds to Austin, he shoots Dream a text.

_Did Austin text you?_

Dream’s text bubble pops up immediately.

_yea, u going?_

_Idk, are you?_

_def_

Well, if Dream is going, George might as well. He sends another:

 _Wanna head over together?_ He and Dream only live a few blocks from each other.

Here, Dream pauses for a minute – a few minutes – before texting back:

_im kinda already out lol but ill meet u there?_

That sort of surprises George, but it’s not that important; he texts back, _sure, no problem,_ and then heads to his closet to find something to wear that’s not his worn-out NASA t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He settles on a plain black t-shirt and dark jeans with a weather-appropriate leather jacket. Nothing extraordinary, but unlike Dream, George doesn’t feel the need to stand out in a crowd. He packs a blunt because he hates relying on other people’s weed, and then he heads out.

The walk to Austin’s is nice; the cool air is refreshing on George’s face, and it feels good to stretch his legs, watching the usual bustle of London go by. He takes walks like this quite often, earbuds in, working through beats and things in his head.

His chill vibes are disrupted the instant he steps foot inside Austin’s flat.

There’s music playing so loud it shakes the floor, bass boosted to such a degree that George can’t even tell what song is playing, just that the rhythm is heavy and bone-rattling. Austin's somehow turned all the lights in his apartment neon, so that everything has an exotic, dangerous feel to it. There are three people standing right inside the door who look at him as he walks in, but he doesn’t know any of them, so he just smiles briefly and pushes past them, heading for the large living area serving as a dance floor, which is packed full of people, shouting over each other to talk over the music. George scans the crowd but doesn’t see anybody here he knows, either, and anxiety starts to rise up in his chest. This is his least favorite part of parties; he doesn’t quite know where to stand, or what to do with his hands.

There’s a bar set up, with someone making drinks, so George makes a beeline there, grabbing a cup and taking a leap of faith as he lifts it to his mouth. Vodka tonic – could be worse.

“George!” someone shouts, and George nearly faints with relief when he sees Sapnap pushing through the crowd. His friend is beaming and looks half-undressed, the top of his shirt unbuttoned. He has a tie wrapped around his head, its ends flying loosely behind him as he gives George a slightly sweaty hug. “I can’t believe you came!”

“I figured it was time to reenter society,” George says with a little laugh.

Sapnap spreads his arms with a grin. “I never left, baby!”

George rolls his eyes as Sapnap pulls him into the crowd. “You need to meet my friend, Hailey. She has this insane story about an alligator -,”

“Is Dream here?” George asks, lifting his voice over the music and wincing when he sees a few nearby heads turn at the namedrop.

“Not yet,” Sapnap says, shooting him a look. “But don’t leave, okay? He’ll be here soon.”

“Why would I leave?” 

“You always leave when Dream's not here.”

George feels embarrassed and wants to defend himself, but Sapnap doesn’t seem bothered by it – just continues pulling him past the dance floor, where the music is practically ear-shattering, and into a side room, where there are couches and seats scattered around. George is more than happy to let Sapnap take the reins, introducing him to Hailey, a woman with long, fake eyelashes and dark, wavy hair whose story about an alligator scaring her on a golf course is – genuinely – hilarious. Sapnap laughs like it’s the first time he’s ever heard it.

While the two of them banter, George’s gaze slides around the room. Everyone here is beautiful, he thinks, with a claustrophobic feeling. He gets invited to these things because he’s in the band, but he doesn’t think he really fits in. He’s a little too quiet, a little too awkward. And he’s pretty sure everyone else can see it, too.

“Tell her, George,” he hears Sapnap say, and turns apologetically.

“Sorry, what?”

“Tell her about the stage in LA.”

“Oh, yeah,” George says, looking at Hailey, who’s smiling with interest. She seems nice, really – he even relaxes a little as he starts, “so, we have this pretty huge set -,”

“It’s massive,” Sapnap interjects.

“Are you going to let me tell this story or what?” George says, and Hailey laughs.

“Sheesh, sorry.”

“So, we have this really heavy set piece,” George continues. “It’s like these enormous metal boxes that we play inside of, right. And so we have to tell these venues, like, in the contract – if you can’t handle so much weight, we can’t play there.”

“So we get to this stage -,” Sapnap interjects –

 _“Sapnap,”_ George says in exasperation.

Hailey cracks up. “Let the poor man speak, Sap,” she says.

George grins. “We get to this stage in LA,” he says. “And it doesn’t look good, right? It looks sort of shaky.”

“Oh, no,” she says, placing a hand over one side of her face.

“But they’re swearing up and down, _no, we tested it, it’s perfectly fine._ And sure enough we put the set pieces on there, and, you know, it’s okay. Like, a little creaky, but it’s fine.”

“And then -,” Sapnap says, already starting to laugh.

“And then, I get up there with my _first drum,”_ George says, “and I just _immediately_ fall through the floor.”

Hailey gasps, like she’s watching it happen live, while Sapnap throws his head back in laughter.

“You should have seen his face, Hailey,” Sap says, touching her arm. “His head was just sticking up over the floorboards, and he looked like he had just seen the face of God -,”

“More like I was worried for my fuckin’ _drum!”_ George shouts with a grin. “It was just sheer luck that it didn’t get punctured, I swear.”

“I bet they made sure the stage could _just_ handle the weight of the set,” Hailey says, “but they didn’t account for the fact that, you know, _people_ had to get up there as well.”

George laughs at that. “Honestly, you’re probably right.”

He finishes his drink as Sapnap keeps regaling Hailey with stories from tour, and then excuses himself to get another drink. Navigating the crowd is easier with a task – with the security of having people to go back to. 

It’s when he turns around that he sees him.

Dream is there, and he's dancing in the middle of the crowd of people, moving along to the beat of some song that George still can’t quite place. He looks flushed, clearly drunk, and he’s dancing with a woman who’s practically throwing herself on him, her arms wrapped around his neck, his hands on her hips, their lips –

It slams George in the chest and he looks away sharply so it doesn’t look like he’s staring. He downs his second drink all at once and grabs a third before beelining back to Sapnap and Hailey, pointedly _not_ looking at Dream again.

When he gets back, Sapnap seems to notice something’s wrong.

“What’s up?” he asks quietly, when Hailey’s busy talking to someone else.

“Nothing,” George says, taking another sip of his drink – something vodka, again, weaker this time, or maybe he's just drunker. “Dream’s here.”

“Where?”

“Dancing.”

“Ah,” Sapnap says knowingly. “So we’ll see him in a few hours then.”

It is a while before they do, but when they see him next, it’s no less jarring for George. Dream comes into the room they’re in with a kind of entourage – the blonde woman he was dancing with earlier and a crowd of people George has never met, never even seen before. Dream collapses on a couch and the woman sits right next to him, her gaze glued to his face, giggling as he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

Dream sees George and Sapnap and grins and waves them over. Sapnap comes over with Hailey, George trailing slightly behind.

“How’s it going?” Dream shouts over the crowd.

“Just chilling, man, what the fuck is up with you?” Sapnap says back, clasping hands briefly with Dream.

“You know me,” Dream responds, his gaze sliding over to George, who smiles thinly, raising his eyebrows. “Hey, George.”

“Hey,” George says, and suddenly this – this is all too overwhelming. He regrets the third drink, he regrets coming here at all. There’s something that makes his stomach churn about seeing that woman shift so that she’s practically sitting on Dream’s lap, the easy way in which his hand rubs her arm –

“I’m gonna go get some fresh air,” he says quickly, earning himself glances from both Dream and Sapnap.

“You okay?” Sap asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just -,” George makes a vague motion with his hands. “I’ll be on the balcony.”

It’s cold outside, and there’s just the slightest mist, which is chasing most people inside; George appreciates it and ignores the chill that immediately stiffens his fingers. He leans against the railing, looking out over the glimmering city below, and shakily pulls out the joint in his pocket. He sticks it in between his teeth, digging for his lighter but coming up short. He mutters a curse quietly to himself – did he forget his fucking lighter? He’s such an idiot –

“Need a light?” comes a voice, and George’s head jerks around.

Dream is there, and he’s alone. He walks up behind George and leans on the railing next to him, holding up a lighter. George hums shortly, slightly shocked by his appearance, and leans forward, letting Dream bring the lighter up to the blunt hanging between his lips.

It takes Dream a few tries to strike a light in the damp air, making them both chuckle, but he gets it eventually, and George pulls in hard, watching the embers take root in the paper and burn. He lets smoke trickle out of his mouth before blowing out, feeling Dream’s eyes on him.

George offers him the blunt, not making eye contact. Dream takes it from him and takes a hit, and George wonders if he should be playing the responsible one – Dream already seemed pretty drunk, and he probably doesn’t need to be high, too. But he’s not Dream’s keeper, he thinks defensively. He can take care of himself.

“You alright?” Dream asks, and George’s hands clench, his fingernails biting into his palm. He hates how easy he is to read, sometimes.

“I’m fine,” he says, trying hard to make his voice light. “I just hate these parties.”

“Me, too,” Dream says, and George scoffs.

“Are you kidding me? You’re the _king_ of scenes like this.”

Dream glances back over his shoulder, and George catches a glimpse of his eyes cast downward, his eyelashes dark over his cheeks. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Does Dream feel the way George does in situations like this? Is that even possible? George takes the proffered blunt and takes a slow drag, watching smoke billow out of his mouth. The end of the joint sputters a bit in the mist, but survives. He shifts weight and feels the effect of the high in his legs, creeping up his neck and into his head.

“Who was that woman, by the way?” he feels himself asking, the weed and alcohol combining to muffle his instinct for self-preservation.

Dream furrows his brow as he takes the blunt. “Which one?”

George looks at him, astonished. “The woman who was practically bouncing on your dick in there?” he says dryly, crasser than usual.

Dream chokes on his hit in surprise, laughing a little as smoke escapes in short puffs from his mouth. “Oh, _her,_ ” he says. “She’s nobody. I mean, she’s somebody, but she’s not important.”

George just shakes his head. He should be used to this by now, but he’s not. He doesn’t understand how Dream is able to do that – just throw his physical affection at people who don’t really matter to him. Just give it away, like it means nothing to him. George doesn’t _judge,_ he’s not saying it’s _morally wrong –_ it’s just never how it’s been for him. “I don’t understand you,” he murmurs, taking the blunt and pausing with it for a while.

Dream laughs. It sounds a little strange. “What’s wrong, Georgie? Jealous?”

George’s muffled brain looks for something to respond, something that will keep the joke going, but mortifyingly, he finds himself saying nothing – just keeping his gaze fixed on the lights below them.

A long, suddenly tense silence stretches between them, and then George sighs, propping his hand up by his elbow on the railing. The joint keeps burning, a thin trail of smoke snaking into the air. He’s alone with Dream right now, a precious occurrence – and he needs to stop being so fucking weird.

“You know what lyric of yours I _always_ think about while I’m smoking?” George says, and he thinks he can feel Dream relaxing next to him.

“What?”

George clears his throat and glances around them, ensuring they’re alone. He’s shy about singing, probably wouldn’t be doing it all if he were sober and with anyone other than Dream. _“I’d like to say you’ve changed, but you’re always the same,”_ he sings quietly, slightly hoarse from the smoke, seeing a grin immediately flicker across Dream’s face and feeling himself flush. _“I’ve got a feeling that the marijuana’s rotting your brain…”_

Dream throws back his head and laughs. “ _Nice_ one, George. Deep cut. We never play that song anymore.”

“I know the first album is far behind us,” George murmurs, taking a small pull and blowing smoke out in a soft plume, “but it’s still got some good moments, you know?”

Dream hums and nods in agreement. “I like the line that comes right before that one,” he says, turning around so that he’s facing back towards the party, his lean body angled back against the railing. He tilts his head back and looks up at the sky, the mist making his face glow slightly, reflecting the neon lights from Austin’s loft.

“Which one?” George asks dumbly, his mind hazy with smoke and Dream.

Dream’s lip curls in amusement. “You're just trying to get me to sing.”

“Hey, _I_ sang and _I’m_ just the lowly drummer,” George says, and Dream laughs again.

“It’s the one -,” he stops and clears his throat, though when he sings it’s not his real singing voice; it’s the kind of soft, light voice he uses when he’s trying out something new in the studio. _“It’s not about your body, it’s just social implications are brought upon by this party that we’re sitting in,”_ he sings, dramatically popping the front of each word, like he does on the track. He shakes his head. “Even back then, I was pretty pretentious.”

“I like that line, too,” George says. “It has good… I dunno. Percussion. In the syllables.”

 _“Br_ ought u _p_ on _b_ y this _p_ arty,” Dream enunciates.

“Exactly.”

The lights below him are shifting and blurring. Is George really that high? He takes a deep breath and tries to steady himself on the railing. It’s so strange – how he feels around Dream. Both perfectly safe and perched on the edge of a cliff, all at once. They’re just quiet, now, and George’s mind is spinning, racing. Why did Dream even follow him out here? Does he know what happens in George’s head? Can he tell? They’re so close together, on the railing. Just a matter of inches.

The door to the loft opens, light spilling out onto the balcony, and George’s shoulders go stiff as he hears a woman’s voice: “There you are, Dream! Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

Dream sends him an apologetic glance and mutters, “duty calls,” pushing himself off of the ledge. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” George says vaguely, waving a hand and feeling it happen twice.

He stands outside for a while longer to sober up, until the mist turns into a drizzle and plasters his hair to his face, to the back of his neck. He considers staying a while longer, just to prove Sapnap’s theory about him and Dream wrong, but then decides there’s not much point, and slips out the door before anyone can try to convince him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is at least 50% dedicated to ao3 user virifanfic whose very kind comments on my last chapter encouraged me to keep writing! :)
> 
> thanks for reading!


	5. Yeah I Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for all the really nice comments last chapter!! I'm having fun writing this and it's good to know other people are enjoying reading! I know this is a really fast update - I can't promise I'll update *this* often, but the inspiration is definitely flowing right now :) 
> 
> TW in this chapter for references to alcoholism that will become standard for the rest of the fic.
> 
> As always: [Suggested Viewing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BXk4MtUFWDU) (consider the song this chapter 'highly suggested' since it's a recording chapter! :) )

George’s phone wakes him up the next day with a text. It’s Dream, and his stomach sort of lurches before he opens the message.

But Dream either doesn’t remember or doesn’t care about the weirdness of the previous night. He says:

 _i have lyrics for u  
_ _no tune yet_

George texts,

_Send_

There’s a pause and then a picture. It’s a familiar sight: George recognizes Dream’s scrawling handwriting, the peculiar rhythm of his lyrics, the lined paper of his notebook.

George texts:

 _What’s the last word on the third to last line?  
_ _Kick the what?_

 _head  
_ _kick the head_

George hums and peers at the words again.

_What does it mean?_

Dream’s texts come rapid-fire.

 _idk  
_ _doesn’t mean anything really  
_ _just words i like  
_ _sound good together  
_ _wrote them last night  
_ _what do you think_

Gears are already turning in George’s head, a slow grin spreading across his face.

_I’ve got ideas_

_fuck yes george  
_ _knew you would_  
 _wanna go to the studio today  
_ _mess around for a while_

_Hell yeah. Let’s do it_

George gets up and stumbles into the shower, washing away the smell of sweat and alcohol from the previous night, his mind already starting to buzz with excitement. It’s been too long since he and Dream have had a recording session, a real one, not the kind of rushed, harried work they do in hotel rooms and on tour buses. Already, his mind is picking over the words Dream sent him, the rhythm of them: _stop the tube, kick the head…_

When he gets out, he has another text from Dream.

_give me like two hours lmao_

Which gives George enough time to eat a real breakfast and drink a few cups of coffee at his windowsill. He throws his laptop, headphones, a notebook and a pen into his backpack before heading for the studio.

It’s already 11am; the sun is high in the sky and the streets are bustling with people and cars. George stuffs his earbuds in as he walks and plays Thom Yorke. He thinks the track he wants to show Dream sounds a little like some of Thom’s stuff, and listening to a finished product helps him put what he has so far in context.

Their studio is a little brick building overgrown with ivy, tucked in between an ever-tempting bodega and, fittingly, a record shop. George pushes past the wrought-iron gates and trots up the stone steps, something warm and bright fluttering in his chest. He fucking loves this place. It’s been too long.

He’s a half hour early, but when he reaches the basement level that serves as their studio, Dream is already there, his legs pulled up onto his chair as he sits hunched over the desk in the control room, scribbling away in his notebook.

“What happened to two hours?” George asks, dropping his backpack on the chair next to him.

Dream blinks up at him with a smile. His glasses are sliding down his nose, the sort of oval wire ones that he only wears when he really needs them. He’s wearing a gray sweater and his favorite long, floral skirt that reaches past his feet, even when his knees are pulled up to his chest. It’s his favorite skirt – he wears it quite a bit these days.

“Sorry,” Dream says, though George clearly isn’t mad. “It was easier to get rid of Kathryn than I thought it would be.”

George blazes right past the mention of Kathryn, who must be the woman from last night. This is recording time – sacred. “I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you,” he says, pulling his laptop out from his backpack and starting to boot up his music apps. “Tell me about these lyrics.”

Dream purses his lips and taps his fingers against his notebook. “Don’t know what to say. You like them?” he asks for the second time.

“I think they’re perfect for this one beat I’ve been working on,” George says, scrolling through his folder where he dumps all of his works in progress. “Let me find it.”

Dream drops his feet to the floor and scoots his chair closer to George, looking over his shoulder as he finally finds the right track. It’s currently just titled _skitter._

“What does that mean?” Dream asks, amused.

“Listen and find out,” George says, plugging the laptop into the speaker system.

It starts playing over the control room speakers, which are pretty high quality, but Dream shakes his head, reaching over George and slapping the space bar to stop the track. “Wait. I wanna listen to it on headphones.” He rummages around the already-messy desk to find the noise-cancelling headphones he loves so much.

“But then I can’t hear,” George pouts.

Dream rolls his eyes. “However will you survive? Get the splitter.”

There’s little George loves more than watching Dream listen to one of his songs for the first time, so he finds the headphone-splitter and plugs it into the computer, connecting his own pair and sliding them over his ears as Dream does the same. His pulse quickening, he presses play on the track, and watches as Dream’s eyelids slide shut, his face furrowing in concentration.

It’s a kind of skitchy, electronic beat: strong, warbling synth and a drum beat that was stuck in George’s head for days after he figured it out. It sounds slightly panicky, uneven, all-over-the place, building layers on itself, following meandering crescendos and decrescendos until it reaches its height around the three minute mark and then falls off dramatically. It’s nowhere near finished, right now – it’s just a foundation, which is the only way to start.

But already, he sees Dream’s head bobbing up and down to the basic beat, his leg jittering a little with the tempo.

“George,” Dream says when the track ends, his voice muffled until George slides off his headphones. “This is already really good.”

The praise fills George with a warm glow. “You hear the same thing I hear?”

“I think so. It’s like – this song probably can’t handle heavy lyrics. Not too many of them,” Dream says, grabbing for his notebook and putting it on his lap. He flips through the pages again until he finds the lyrics he had sent to George earlier, then taps his finger against them. “It needs this. Impressions of ideas, more than the ideas themselves.”

“ _Pick a card_ ,” George mumbles, leaning over to look at the notebook so that he and Dream are almost bumping heads.

“Play it again,” Dream says abruptly, knocking his knuckle against George’s arm. “Speakers this time.”

George plugs in the room speakers and puts the track on loop, and they sit and listen together, Dream jittering his fingers against the page. George loves when Dream gets like this: hyper-focused, fully absorbed with the music, the concept. When they get into this kind of flow, they can often work for hours uninterrupted, often until the early hours of the morning.

" _Try your best,”_ Dream suddenly sings, keeping his pitch fixed on one note that harmonizes with the synth. _“Yeah, I know.”_

It’s like his voice becomes another instrument, a sort of static fixture against the chaos of the backdrop. It zaps George in the head. “That,” he says, and Dream looks up, raising his eyebrows. “I like that.”

Dream bites his lip as he grins. “Should we record?”

“Absolutely,” George says, pushing his laptop slightly aside and pulling the control board towards him, waking up the rest of the machinery in the studio.

They work on it for a few hours. Dream has to warm up his vocals, first, and then he records a few different times, trying different takes on the lines he has written. George messes around with different vocoders – they both agree that making his voice sound synthetic is a good addition to the track. Then George decides he wants one line to repeat over and over, to build into what’s essentially serving as the chorus. Dream likes the way _hit that shit_ sounds, so they isolate that line and re-record the first verse. Then, while Dream hovers over his shoulder, throwing out suggestions, George dives deep, adding more and more layers to the foundation he’s built for himself. More drums, more synth. More everything.

They stall out around 6pm.

“It needs something else,” George says, staring at his computer. His eyes feel strained, and he rubs at them.

“Yeah,” Dream says, perched at his left shoulder, one hand pressed to his mouth. He looks as intense and focused as ever.

“I think I need to eat,” George says, but Dream doesn’t react. “Are you hungry?”

He lifts his shoulders once.

“I’m gonna go get us sandwiches,” George says. “Does that sound good?”

“Sure.”

One-word responses from Dream are usually a sign of mental preoccupation. George wonders if Dream even knows what he just asked him. It doesn’t matter – they’ve been here for seven hours and need to eat, and George knows Dream’s sandwich order.

When he emerges from the studio, even the gray light of the evening is bright enough to make him squint. He leaves through the gate and heads to the next-door bodega, which contains a small, dangerously good sandwich shop that George suspects their band has played a significant role in keeping afloat over the years. He orders a turkey club for Dream and a reuben for himself, and grabs a few cans of Coke to boot.

When he comes back, he sees Dream sitting out on the stoop, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. The beer is… slightly unusual, but nothing too out of the ordinary, and George sets their food on the step between them and sits down with an exhale.

Dream looks contemplative, staring off into space as he takes a puff from the cigarette, ignoring his sandwich for now. The edge of his skirt flutters a little in the breeze.

“Frustrated?” George asks, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Dream tilts his head. “Not _frustrated_. Just focused.”

George nods as he chews, and then grabs Dream’s sandwich and forces it into his hands. “Eat.”

Dream looks at the sandwich like it’s assaulting him, but he takes it, unwrapping the paper and taking the world’s tiniest bite.

“Come on, Dream, be a big boy and eat your dinner,” says George encouragingly.

“The song is missing something,” Dream says, staring at the pavement.

George muffles a sigh and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you think it is?”

Dream chews on the inside of his cheek and then sets his sandwich down, reaching for his beer instead. “I think it needs a melody.”

“Well… it already has one. It’s just not in the lyrics.”

“That’s what I mean,” Dream says. “It needs a melodic vocal line. Not much. Just a sentence or so.”

“Okay,” George says, nodding. He can picture it. “What should the words be?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Dream probably doesn’t need George to baby-step him through his creative process, but sometimes just talking through these things can help him break out of the mental loops he gets stuck in. “Do you have any ideas?”

Dream shrugs. “The other lyrics are just punchy three-syllable phrases I think sound nice. This has to be different. It has to be a full sentence, so it has to actually say something. I just don’t know what I want to say.”

George hums, looking up at the sky. A few people walk past the gate, giggling. A bus drives by a moment later, its tires roaring against the cement.

“Do you ever get the feeling,” George says, “that we’re still just seventeen-year-old idiots, writing love songs in my mum’s garage?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not anymore,” Dream says. “I _often_ get the feeling that we’re twenty-five-year old adults with millions of fans waiting for us to put out a record --,”

“Well, that’s true -,”

“Slowly inching our way towards death --,”

“Bit morbid -,”

“One bad night away from freefalling into alcoholism --,”

And this sentence, unlike the others, makes George’s head jerk towards Dream. “What the fuck?” he says sharply.

If Dream knows he’s messed up, he doesn’t show it. “It was a _joke,_ George.”

“No,” George says, feeling his shoulders tense. “You don’t joke about that. You know that, Dream.”

“George -,”

“Do I need to be worried?”

_“No.”_

“Then what should I be? Cause you can’t just say that shit and expect me not to -,”

There’s a hand on George’s arm, and _finally_ Dream is looking at him, staring him straight in the eyes. “George,” he says quietly. “I’m fine. That was a stupid joke. I’m sorry.”

George pauses, searching Dream’s face. His green eyes are lined at the corners, faint impressions of dark circles under them. They look tired, but they also look honest.

“No lying,” Dream says, not dropping George’s gaze. And, maybe to prove it, he stands up and pours the rest of his beer out into the bushes.

It’s probably a hollow gesture, since they still have plenty of beer in the fridge in the basement, but it’s a gesture all the same, and George relaxes as Dream sits down next to him again and takes a bit of his sandwich – another olive branch.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Don’t be sorry,” says Dream. “You’re right, I shouldn’t joke about that.”

There’s just too much history, and Dream knows it. And it’s all a little too recent, a little too real for George still. He tries his best not to monitor Dream or nag him or anything like that – but sometimes the little red flags that pop up all over the place get too large for him to ignore. Still, Dream can say _no lying_ with a straight face, and that means something. George trusts that. Trusts him. He does. And - and he doesn't really want to think about this right now.

“So,” Dream says. “The song.”

“Right,” says George, looking down at his shoes. “The song.”

Dream exhales and crushes his cigarette with the toe of his boot. “I think I have the line.”

George glances at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wanna go back in?”

By the time Dream heads back into the recording booth, his sandwich is still only missing a few bites. George watches him step up to the microphone and clocks the way Dream still looks thin, like he did on tour, his cheekbones almost gaunt. George wonders, if he could see Dream's chest, if his collarbones would stick out, sharp and knobby at the ends, like he had seen them once. The thought causes a confusing swirl of emotions in his chest. He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair and tells himself to pick his battles.

“Ready?” Dream says into the mic, his voice coming through clearly in George’s headphones, and George reaches over to flip the recording switch, sending him a thumbs up through the glass.

The song as they have it starts playing for both of them, and George sees Dream’s eyelids flutter shut and his head nods along to the beat, like he’s being absorbed fully by the music. George takes a deep breath and tries to do the same, closing his eyes as the beat really kick into gear, and the lyrics they’ve already recorded start to play.

 _Pick a card,_ past-Dream sings, the vocoder making the words synthetic. _Yeah, I know._

“ _Time feels like it’s changed_ ,” Dream sings, taking a bolder, higher melody, and George’s eyes fly open. “ _I don’t feel the same_.”

 _Live on Mars,_ past-Dream continues, but real-Dream is stepping away from the mic, his eyes open, gaze sort of serious. George catches his breath.

The two of them keep listening for a little while longer, but eventually Dream waves his hand and George turns off the recording.

When he comes back into the control booth, Dream ventures, “d’you like that?”

“Yeah,” George says immediately. That doesn’t feel like enough, so he follows up quickly with, “I loved it.”

A small, proud smile appears on Dream’s face. “It goes in?”

“It goes in,” George says definitively.

Dream sits next to George again, folding the fabric of his skirt over his knees. “I think that line just repeats. After every – you know – short bit.”

George gets into the recording program, replicating the line and copying it four times, but then he stares at it. It already feels wrong. “I don’t think that’s quite it,” he says.

Dream presses a hand to his mouth. “What more does it need?”

It comes to him in a flash of inspiration that nearly blinds him. George feels a smile spreading across his face as he selects the second and fourth iteration and reverses them. He presses play and listens to the garbled sounds that reversing turns Dream’s words into – but it sounds _good_ – interesting - it matches the rest of the bizarre mismatch of the song as it stands so far – adds another level of chaos to it.

Dream starts to chuckle next to him as George leans back in his chair, spinning around and throwing his arms out, like he’s just won a race. “He’s insane!” Dream says dramatically. “He’s gone mad with power!”

“Am I _wrong,_ though?” George says, his voice lifting with excitement.

“You’re going to have concerned parents accusing us of putting demonic messages in their children’s heads, but you’re not wrong.”

“We already have that. So it stays.”

And despite their brief hiccup from earlier, this - all of this - feels good. It feels right. George keeps tinkering with things and Dream eats half of his sandwich, and they bicker over how loud some of the levels should be, and George adds extra flair and even more vocal effects onto Dream’s lines, prompting a scolding – “what’s wrong, George, you don’t like my wonderful dulcet tones?” They’re lounging around, working on their laptops, Dream scribbling every now and then in his notebook, though he won’t let George see what he’s working on just yet.

Near midnight, Dream’s phone starts dinging incessantly. He checks it and presses his lips into a thin line.

“I think I might head out,” he says, and George’s heart falls.

“Important midnight business?” he asks, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Kathryn.”

George shoots him a look. “I thought she wasn’t important.”

“She’s not,” Dream says with a sigh. “At least, I don’t think she is.”

 _Then don’t go,_ George doesn’t say, because it wouldn’t be fair. Dream has spent the past twelve hours with him. It’s George’s fault if it doesn’t feel like enough. And it's not about spending time with George, anyway. It's about the album. (This trail of thought is not making him feel any better.)

Dream starts packing up his stuff, then he stops, touching George on the shoulder and making him jerk his head towards him. “You staying here?”

“I think so,” George says. “I’d like to get something finished to show Wilbur. It has been a while.”

Dream nods. “Then I will leave this song in your capable hands.”

George rolls his eyes and swats his hand away. “How generous of you,” he says sarcastically. “You sure you trust me enough?”

“Of course I do,” Dream says, sounding surprisingly genuine. George looks at him again and sees that he’s staring intently at George, something honest in his eyes. “You’re a genius, George. I wouldn’t want to be doing this with anyone else.”

George’s heart skips a beat, and for a second he imagines that Dream can feel the same thing George feels: tension like a cord, constantly connecting the two of them together by the chest, pulling them towards each other.

But then he remembers where Dream is going, and he shakes his head, turning back to the computer. “Tell Kathryn I said hello, Dream.”

Dream huffs a soft laugh and says, “Probably won’t. Night, George.”

George stays holed up in the dark, lonely studio for a few hours more, the glow of the computer screen the only light, the only sound the same schizophrenic beat in his head on repeat; Dream’s voice in his ears, saying over and over, _try your best, fuck it up, yeah I know, yeah I know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love writing this fic because it means i just get to listen to songs from my favorite band on repeat for hours while i write it. which i can do anyway but this time it's Helping :) 
> 
> thanks for readingg <3


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